Chapter 8
The school was called Caldmore Primary and Marcus started there on a Monday morning three days after his arrival, still not entirely sure what day it felt like, his body and the clock disagreeing about where he was.
The classroom was nothing like Miss Morrison's back in Kingston. It was larger and lighter, with a carpet instead of concrete floors and books so many books arranged along entire walls in colour-coded series. Marcus had to concentrate on not just standing and staring at the books.
The teacher was called Mrs. Hargreaves. She was a thin, energetic woman with short grey hair and glasses on a chain around her neck that she put on and took off continuously, as if she couldn't decide how clearly she wanted to see things.
"Class, we have a new student today," she said, with the particular brightness teachers put on for introductions. "This is Marcus, who has come to us all the way from Jamaica. I know you'll make him feel very welcome."
Twenty-six faces turned toward Marcus with varying degrees of interest. He stood at the front of the room and returned their gaze calmly, the way he had learned from his mother to return any gaze directly, without aggression, but without apology.
"Hi," he said.
He was shown to a seat near the window. The boy next to him was small and freckled and introduced himself in a rapid burst of syllables as Jamie. He seemed to find Marcus immediately interesting in the straightforward, uncomplicated way of certain children who simply enjoy new things.
"Is Jamaica hot?" Jamie asked in a loud whisper while Mrs. Hargreaves wrote something on the board.
"Yes," Marcus said.
"Have you seen a shark?"
"No."
"My uncle saw a shark once. In Spain. He said it was about this big." Jamie indicated an improbable size with his hands.
"People always make sharks bigger," Marcus said.
Jamie considered this. "Yeah, probably," he agreed, and seemed to find Marcus more interesting for it.
The work was not harder than what Marcus had been doing in Kingston different in emphasis, sometimes differently sequenced, but not harder. What was harder was the constant, low-level effort of being new. Of reading the room. Of translating not just accent and vocabulary but the entire unspoken grammar of a new social landscape who sat where, what the jokes meant, what the alliances were, what was admired and what was mocked.
He was careful. He watched. He said less than he thought, which was already less than most.
He came home from the first week tired in a way that had nothing to do with the schoolwork.
"How was it?" Beverley asked over dinner.
"Fine," Marcus said.
She looked at him. She had her sister's ability to read past single-word answers.
"It's hard, starting new," she said. "Give it time. You'll find your people."
He wrote to Leroy that evening. He told him about the books and about Jamie and about how grey everything was. He did not write about the tiredness. He knew Leroy would worry and there was nothing Leroy could do about it from Kingston.
He signed the letter: Your brother, Marcus.
Because that was what Leroy was. And some things don't change with distance.